


Seeking

by iing



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha John Watson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, M/M, Omega Sherlock, Omega Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28063953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iing/pseuds/iing
Summary: John's unique dark scent brings Sherlock a strange comfort and entirely unknown desire. Sherlock is pretty sure he can deal with that...until he realizes his own scent is affecting the Alpha as well.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 63
Kudos: 210





	1. Chapter 1

Growing up, Sherlock always hated being an omega. The idea that he needed some large strong Alpha to protect him and a large hard cock to fuck him has always been infuriating to him. 

It wasn’t until he turned was 16 and was already several years into using heavy heat suppressants and scent blockers that he made the realization: no matter what drugs he took to mask his scent, there were always other biological factors that game him away. Knot-headed Alphas would still leer at him and throw profanities his way as he walked by. A disadvantage to be sure in a world that sees omegas as little more than sex objects. However, Sherlock realized that he has within himself a remarkable power. Simply put in two words: omega wiles. Soon enough, the Alpha boys at his school follow Sherlock with a needy lust and devotion that would have them allow Sherlock almost anything he wanted.

And now, it continues to prove helpful as it can addle the mind of the most dangerous thug as soon as they realize it‘s an omega who solved their crime.

However, not _all the times._ There are those Alphas who get more than a bit infuriated by seeing Sherlock is outsmarting them. He doesn't mind that, what he does mind is how at times like this when Sherlock finds his annoying omega instincts taking over. 

John is standing nearby, like a looming statue close behind him, arms crossed and jaw clenched, watching with narrow brow while Sherlock argues with the increasingly irate Alpha. Sherlock feels an innate sense of security and comfort that allows him to act more bold. oddly comfortable and reckless, knowing John, with a strength of presence only a powerfully masculine Alpha can provide, is with him. He's sure it has nothing to do with protective, sexual jealousy. John has certainly shown he prefers every other woman and omega to fucks his cock inside _besides_ Sherlock. Still, if Sherlock didn't know any better, John, who always has such rigid control, seems far less reined-in today. 

George Gardner is an astonishingly dumb Alpha. Sherlock has been making salient and clever points and for every shrewd observation Sherlock makes, the man responds with snarls and spit, until Sherlock makes another quip that he seems to find especially enraging and he suddenly jolts towards the omega with his hands raised as if to choke his throat. 

It's at this moment John takes a step forward. A single step, almost casually taken, but John's natural earthen, woodsmoke scent becomes a bold onslaught that fills the room, a rush of pheromones overpowering both omega and rival Alpha. Sherlock feels lightheaded, overwhelmed really - the hot, spicy musk of John's angered Alpha joins atop John's familiar and unique dark, smoky notes.

George backs off immediately.

Soon after, a female officer, Nancy or something, comes over to make the arrest. She’s supposed to have backup, surely. Her partner is slow and still making his way from the car when George makes his move.

It happens all too quickly. Were Sherlock not still fighting the dizzy spell, he might have seen it coming, but as it happens, Gardner has a hand in his curls before he realizes that the Alpha must have decided he might as well go all out. Behind him he hears John snarl, deep and dark and animal.

“Little omega slut, you’re dead.”

“John!” Sherlock screams, and hits against Gardner’s wrist to release him. A millisecond later Gardner does, but only because John slams into his midsection, sending George crashing to the floor only for John to pick him up and send him hurtling into the nearby wall.   
  
”Jesus.” The female officer murmurs, dumbstruck. 

“Christ, Stacey, call for an ambulance.” The second officer finally stumbles inside, wide-eyed, having just caught the action.

John’s face is narrowed and hard as he strides back to him. "We're leaving." The low growl John spits out makes Sherlock shiver and forget to thank him, and before he finds his voice to say anything, a large, warm hand encloses around his bicep and drags him outside.

Later, at the station, as they discuss the closure of the case with Lestrade and Sally, Sherlock finds himself subtly shifting closer to the Alpha. He’s moving on pure instinct, involuntarily seeking the spicy burning scent of _virile_ Alpha. It brings a comfort Sherlock has always refrained from giving into.

He steals glances at John, trying to remember why he should resist the urge to put his head on the man’s shoulder. Hasn't he been told time and time again that staying alone protects an omega? That a friendship with an Alpha is dangerous, if not impossible?


	2. Chapter 2

It's late morning and Sherlock still hasn't gotten up.

He rolls around in and under his sheets as he tries to rouse himself to full consciousness. It’s quite difficult; he rather loves how huge his bed is, and often enjoys luxuriating in the warmth and softness. He still feels exhausted, despite having slept through nearly 18 hours after his post-case collapse, a comparatively longer time.

He feels… good. Good, though perhaps not as good, as he should be feeling. The case is over and it was a huge success — he should be elated, and have the urge to finally eat something after his long rest. Instead he feels lazy, indolent, stifled by an unknown source. 

He starts to ponder his present situation when he begins to sit up, and a stretching ache stings though every muscle in his body. He flops his curly head right back onto his pillow. 

_Focus!_

Running through his head on loop are likely culprits for his lack of focus: the recent case, whether he could have solved the puzzles faster, the chase, his meeting with the odious George Gardner, John… _John_ … his dark, full-bodied scent: pure Alpha male.

_Stop!_

He shouldn’t be thinking about John like that. It’s wrong. Wrong because John has shown him time and time again he’s not interested in Sherlock that way. Their friendship is just that, a partnership of sorts, and nothing more. Since they moved in together these eight months ago, the Alpha has demonstrated an uncommonly enormous sexual appetite, and while Sherlock likes to think John had been putting the moves on him that first day at Angelo’s, the omega now knows John is adamant about screwing every female and omega on three continents _except_ for Sherlock. 

_Rude._

Honestly, though, Sherlock is well aware he’s a freak; he doesn’t do sex, and his scent is extremely light, both naturally and due to his years of suppressant use. But still — aren’t his looks more pleasing than most omegas and women? He’s been told they are, that he has all the classic omega traits. While John may prefer females, his appearance should count for something in his favor. He’s a fair bit prettier than anyone John’s dated, that’s for certain.

Then again, it makes perfect sense. John isn’t the sort to settle down, and Sherlock certainly doesn’t want some knot-headed neanderthal Alpha barging into his life and ruining his independence. In that case, why can’t he get John out of his mind? Every part of the solid man is powerful yet moral, animalistic yet controlled, just like an Alpha should be. _The ideal Alpha,_ his traitorous brain unhelpfully supplies. Sherlock shivers despite the thick blankets. How easily he had taken out Gardner. Those broad hands grabbing Gardner and throwing him with pure brute strength...

Another full-body shiver runs down his spine and an unfamiliar heat pinkens his pale cheeks. The memory of John’s hands come through clearly, shoving the rest of his thoughts out of the way. His palms are wide and his fingers are short but thick and masculine, with a perfect roughness to them. John isn’t just a soldier, he’s a surgeon; those brutally strong fingers have a certain precision Sherlock’s omega can’t help but wonder about. How they would feel on his bare skin? 

He begins panting softly. 

_Not good, Sherlock. Very not good. Think about something else._

Is it a false memory that Sherlock swears he felt each callous on John’s large hand when it was clamped around his arm? The heat he felt radiating through his thin shirt and suit certainly isn’t. 

_Stop! Stop!_

The panting increases despite his attempts to try tamping his hormones down. He feels newly exhausted and simultaneously restless all of a sudden. Maybe he’s getting sick. Maybe…

Sherlock glances towards his closet. Inside, tucked away behind several other boxes of clothes and outfits and disguises, is a surprisingly large if rarely used box of dildos that prove he isn’t actually asexual, despite his weaker than average libido. He’s always known this. He simply doesn’t want to have sex with other people. _Afraid of sex,_ as his brother always teases him. It’s not necessarily true, but the loss of control is what frightens him. He knows enough about the world to know most omegas would do well to keep true to Sherlock’s personal motto: alone protects me. 

After several long minutes mentally debating the options before him, the omega decides against indulging his sudden urges. A nice strong cup of coffee should do the trick. He throws off the sheets and hops out of bed. 

It’s a mistake. 

Dizziness swarms him immediately, the ache from before renewing its attack so viciously, it sends him doubled over with pain. No longer is the random soreness spread out in all his muscles, suddenly everything spikes outward from the epicenter, his lower abdomen and ass. Sherlock bites his hand to keep from crying out.

_Oh God... no… not this. Not now!_

The telltale cramp registers an unmistakable memory. 

Pre-heat. A pre-heat typically arises in pre-adolescent omegas, ushering in the upcoming puberty and full heats. However, when heats are suppressed for an extended amount of time, the omega’s body isn’t given sufficient allowance to adjust and pre-heats can occur in adult omegas as well.

Sherlock’s family had always suspected he was an omega, even at birth, and when he was twelve years old and was found leaning against a wall, gasping and panting wetly, his mummy had quickly scooped him up and carried him to his room, explaining his biology to him in no uncertain terms.

Not long after that he took his first suppressant. Mummy, an omega herself, and the rest of his family, were thrilled to hear their suspicions confirmed, but they also understood enough about society to respect Sherlock’s decision not to bond and procreate immediately. A year later he took a higher dose suppressant pill. Two years later, he moved to injections - much stronger - and next, he was at college and discovered the vast world of types of drugs omegas could take - suppressants laced with narcotics. 

He quickly became addicted. He managed to beat the addiction with the help of an intervention, but continued to dabble with some drugs. After many experiments, he was able to concoct what would become his favorite solution of non-addictive drugs and a potent suppressant, only to be taken once a month. He hasn’t had a pre-heat in almost five years. Until now.

Blindly, he reaches a trembling hand to his night stand. It takes a good three minutes while his body is wracked with shivers for him to inject the needle in the bottle and then himself. It takes a while for the drugs to counteract what his body is pushing forward, but ultimately, the drugs are strong enough to win out and the cramps, shivers, and panting subside.

He stays on his bed another ten minutes before finally, _finally_ getting up for the day, the drugs doing their job to perfection. Prancing a bit with rejuvination to his limbs, he goes to his walk-in closet. An interest in fashion is a classically omega interest that Sherlock, who tends to be especially vain, has taken to heart. He doesn’t always enjoy his biological instincts, but he can’t deny how easily his omega assets turn heads whenever he steps out. Omega fashion is designed to accentuate those features: tight trousers to showcase his slender legs and narrow hips, and most especially his full ass in the back and the lack of bulge up front. Tight shirts show off his svelte body. 

Nowadays, picking his outfits is one of the highlights of his day and today is no exception. He scans his clothes for the right ensemble. He settles on a light blue button down shirt that shows off his pale blue eyes. When he starts pulling on one of his perfectly tailored, form-fitting trousers, he receives the second unhappy surprise of the day. 

His dietary habits are erratic at best and he has lost even more weight in the wake of his most recent case-fueled fast, so his trousers are loose as they slip up his thighs smoothly, however at the swell of his ass… they catch. Sherlock tries again and has to tug them up. When he tries to tighten the clasp and realizes he can’t; panic floods him as a flashback to when he tried to pull up his favorite pink skirt and being unable to zip it up at the back. He was inconsolable and his mum had to sit him down and explain to him how omegas will experience physical changes preluding a heat. As typical for male omegas, one of these changes is his ass, which will become swollen to better tempt Alphas. Similarly, female omegas experience swelling in their breasts.

It took a visit to an omega tailor for Sherlock to come to terms with his new body, his new way of life, and find a new outlook on his life. Now he knows all too well the power his slim pale body and ripe ass have over the opposite sex… Well _most_ of the opposite sex. John seems patently against sleeping with him. 

He sighs as he looks over his shoulder at his reflection in the mirror, mouth falling open. He looks remarkably, almost stupidly, voluptuous, his round globes popping out like melons. Scrounging around for one of his larger sized trousers, he considers when he’ll have time to make a visit with his personal tailor. These will have to do, he thinks, pulling on the relaxed trousers. 

When he opens his bedroom door his nose is hit with three individual scents. First a familiar scent - John’s burning woodsmoke and earthiness is, as usual, heavy in the air, and even impossibly stronger; Sherlock can practically taste it on his tongue. Under that he detects Lestrade’s own Alpha scent, though lighter than John’s musk. And then, most baffling, there is the very light, very soft, yet still noticeable scent of… himself. Sherlock has always had a rather freakishly delicate scent for an omega: strawberries, vanilla with floral hints, but too light for most to smell. But now he can definitely sense a soft note of himself, bubblegum with vanilla. Most odd is that he’s able to perceive it at all outside his room, because he has remained inside his bedroom since early evening the day before. 

Biting his lip, he silently steps into the living room. When he passes the stairs he hears John and Lestrade upstairs. Sherlock can hear Greg chuckling. 

“He’s pretty, but a bitch for sure. Don’t know how you do it, mate.” 

“You have no clue how bad it gets,” John huffs.

“I mean he drives _me_ up a wall and I don’t have to spend nearly as much time with him as you do. How you don’t bend him over your lap and spank that tight little ass of his is beyond me. You really do have balls of steel.” 

“I’m not sure I do anymore.” John’s voice is half despondency, half anger.

“Well, then, you got to let him know, you know. I think if he did know, he’d be more careful.” 

“Are you kidding? He’d be twice as bad. He already tortures me like you can’t imagine.” 

Lestrade sounds apologetic. “Sorry mate.”

He can hear them getting closer to the door and steps away so that he won’t be seen overhearing them. He misses some conversation, but he is able to make out Greg’s next statements.

“Is Sherlock still taking his suppressants? I don’t mean to impose but, well you ought to be careful. Sherlock’s been smelling sweeter, well, fucking delicious actually. Fucking hell, if his suppressants fail and that delectable scent hits the outside air - fuck, John, you’ll have every Alpha within five blocks breaking down the door and attacking each other to get to him first.” 

The bedroom door opens, the stairs creaking under their weight. 

“Ah, Giles, I see you decided to pop by. Having trouble with a cold case, I expect.” He looks over from the couch on which he had thrown himself in order to seem busy. 

Greg appraises him closely and his scent, while by no means as pungent as John’s, is still Alpha, and Sherlock is strangely obliged to play into it. He isn’t flirtatious by nature, but he absolutely knows how to play the minx. 

“Er, no Sherlock, I came to see John. But now that you mention it, yeah, I do have something you could look at.” Greg saunters up to him. Sherlock shivers when he realizes his eyes are darker than usual.

-

John is ready to snap. 

The second he stepped downstairs, he knew he was in trouble. Sherlock’s strawberry, honeysuckle scent, which he’s only ever managed to get in light, tiny puffs when he happened to be close enough to touch the omega, has always struck John as most lovely — sweet and soft — but he’s been able to ignore it for the sake of their friendship, and Sherlock’s aversion to sex. Except lately… in the last few weeks John has been made maddeningly aware of the omega’s scent and it is distracting enough to drive him insane. His fragrance is utterly intoxicating, the dainty berry notes are blooming with vanilla hints that make his mouth water and his hands itch to _claim._

It doesn’t help that Sherlock looks mind-numbingly _beautiful_ , pale and soft lying on the couch like a maiden in repose, his coquette fingers tapping against each other in prayer position, innocent, yet sinful. There’s a lovely pink flush and dewiness to his porcelain cream complexion that, had it been any other omega, John would account for a fever or sign of incipient heat. 

Worse, though, is how Sherlock suddenly reacts to Greg, fucking _Greg Lestrade_ , as though... John hardly wants to put a name to it. But Sherlock is definitely playing some game, his lashes fluttering coyly and fanning across his soft cheeks as he takes the folder Greg hands over. 

And meanwhile John is forced to stand, arms crossed, solid like a statue unable to do a damn thing but continue to breathe in the omega’s luscious scent. His frustration is an approximation for what he had felt with Gardner the day before, only this is much worse. Gardner was a small-dick Alpha who posed a danger to Sherlock, and Sherlock being who he is, teased and taunted him, because that’s how Sherlock’s brand of sex kitten deals with Alphas - John learned this lesson on day one. And John knows his role easily. Defender, Supporter, Protector.

But this is Greg! Why the hell does Sherlock feel he has to act flirtatious with Greg? Of all the Alphas who simp after Sherlock’s sweet body, Greg is number one, and boy, does the little tart know it. Sherlock has the man by his bollocks. So it is all the more rage-inducing that John has to watch Sherlock play this flirty game.

Sherlock's fingers dance coyly over the pages as he flips through them. He must know he has two sets of very hungry Alpha eyes fixed on his every movement when he twitches his upturned nose and taps a fingertip to his full bottom lip in thought, a comprehensively coquettish act, yet John’s eyes cannot help but linger on the soft pink flesh beneath Sherlock’s finger. Heat instantly pools to his groin. 

Sherlock's eyes sparkle with mischievousness when he tilts his head so his curls fall across his face and looks at Greg from beneath the long sweep of long auburn eyelashes. "Is this all?" The omega says, pitching his voice higher and sweeter than usual, “I expect I'll have both of these solved by nightfall.” 

John’s face snaps into a furrowed line. It’s a shameless display of Sherlock’s omega wiles. John’s not sure if the snarling animal part of his brain is more furious that Sherlock is flirting so sumptuously with another Alpha, or that he's simply never displayed these coquette charms for John's behalf.

A deep growl of hot jealousy begins rising from the pit of his chest. 

If Greg doesn’t react, at least Sherlock hears John’s pitiful roar for attention. Sherlock’s eyes dart to John, and for an instant, John sees a mix of genuine guilt behind those sky blue irises. 

“Gavin, maybe you should get back to your office. I’ll text you with the culprits later.” Sherlock lilts, popping up off the couch. 

“I can wait if you want,” Greg chuckles, trying to act casual, stepping closer to Sherlock and earning another fierce growl from John. 

“I think it’s best if you leave.” John’s words are pointed, his tone rough with meaning. 

“Um, yeah. Sure, John.” Greg responds, suddenly picking up on the change in John’s scent. 

Sherlock’s nose twitches. He has caught on as well and stays close to John. John nearly crows with triumph as Greg opens the door to leave. 

Then, after John says goodbye and right before Greg shuts the door, Sherlock calls out to him. 

“I’m going to play my violin for a while, so don’t expect anything before five, Greg.” 

_Greg?_

John’s body snaps towards Sherlock. His eyes narrow. “What the hell was that? Greg?” John suddenly vibrates with a possessive snarl that takes Sherlock by surprise. 

Sherlock’s eyes widen and flutter, his tongue darts out and to flick across his bottom lip before his teeth press against it; he clearly realizes his mistake. 

John moves without knowing it, crowding the omega away from the front door and towards the far wall. “You know his name after all?” He’s nearly frothing with hurt and jealousy and sexual frustration.

He’s so close now — Sherlock’s tempting, enticing scent driving him mad with lust. His nostrils flare wide like a bull’s to inhale as much of the delectable omega scent as he can. Sherlock’s face and throat are flushed beautifully, his bottom lip swollen and slightly red from his teeth biting into it and John just stares at those trembling lips, wanting nothing more than to devour them. 

He has just enough control left to keep from doing that, but not enough from tasting the omega’s beautiful throat.

Groaning deep in his chest, John surges forward, making an instinctual dive straight for the virgin white skin of Sherlock’s neck. His teeth bear down on the soft, supple skin, not hard enough to break or bond but enough, just barely enough. 

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is practically a keen, high and sweet, a beg for John’s forgiveness, and John gives it heartily, lapping at the soft skin he just bruised.

It’s that taste of his skin - paler than snow and sweeter than sugar - and the sight of Sherlock arching his neck to bare its vulnerability before the Alpha that a wall of carnal possessiveness slams into him, fiery and fierce, abruptly breaks down John’s control, leaving an dark hunger erupting low in his gut. His cock throbs from pure, molten _want._

The dark, spicy petricore of his own Alpha arousal along with Sherlock’s lighter, delicious notes fill the room.

John reaches his hands behind Sherlock to those luscious, plump globes he has fantasised about ever since seeing Sherlock bent over in the lab. John slams his hips forward in a single rut against Sherlock’s skinny frame, and Sherlock cries out again. The sound Sherlock makes is just the invitation his Alpha needs so he does it, again, and again, and again.

“You’re _mine_.” His rumble turns into a deep and dark and ferocious growl. His hands grip iron-strong onto bony hips and suddenly, without his own conscious thought, one of his hands scoops under Sherlock's ass while the other rips open Sherlock’s posh shirt, sending buttons flying. If Sherlock is stunned, his body doesn't show it. The omega lets out a broken sob and yields beautifully, long legs and arms wrapping around John on instinct, slim thighs bracket his broad body, and ankles lock into place behind his back. John holds Sherlock’s body to his, spinning them around and carrying him to his chair. When he drops down on it, Sherlock's head falls back like a ragdoll, gasping as John steadies him in place on his lap, aligning his crotch with the seam of the omega's ass. He places kisses and nips along the now exposed collarbone while his other hand strokes up and down his back. The notches of Sherlock's spine are painfully evident beneath his shirt, which hangs loosely over his shoulder, half torn off. 

Sherlock gasps and makes little broken noises. The contrast of innocence and sinfulness of Sherlock’s mouth is an impossible temptation. John again uses every single ounce of his willpower to stop from plundering it. Instead he lightly scrapes his teeth against the extended column one more time before beginning to rub his bristly stubble against Sherlock’s jaw and neck. 

Sherlock whimpers and nuzzles his face towards John so he can get more of the rough sensation. 

“So responsive,” John rumbles, pleased to know he’ll soon make Sherlock smell of _him_ and only him soon. 

“Going to claim you,” John growls deep in his chest. The pulse of blood in his veins is thick with need, his Alpha roars to _mount_ this little brat of an omega. This time when he thrusts his hips forward his iron-hard cock makes contact against the pure plushness of Sherlock’s firm, fleshy-round buttocks. 

“Wait!” 

The meaning behind the word doesn’t make it past John’s animal brain, only that the omega’s high whine is a sound John is eager to elicit again. So he does it again.

“Stop!”

“Christ, you’re perfect.” He breathes, inhales deeply against the dewy, flushed skin of Sherlock’s neck. A rush of lust overtakes him; John’s arousal is so profound and animalistic, it borders on blacking out his control. 

He thrusts up once more, and once more hears a broken sob, this time forming the shape of his own name, and contains the unmistakable plaintive note of genuine distress. And Sherlock’s scent has changed. 

_Oh God_. 

John stills instantly.

**Author's Note:**

> Please be gentle on me. Encouragement and kind words are absolutely appreciated. I also will happily listen to gentle crit. Let me know if you liked it!


End file.
